


The Uses of Hurting

by orphan_account



Series: Uses [2]
Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, Lightly hinted at BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter had gone to stand in the corner, smoking and trying to keep it together—George was the only man to ever have seen him weep, and that was ten years ago now. Richard refused to look at him properly, and that ripped the slowly healing wound in him wide open.</p><p>“Mr. Litton—Richard, may I call you Richard?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Uses of Hurting

**Author's Note:**

> This has been posted over on tumblr already on my Silberias fanfic blog. There've been some minor edits for flow and quality so there we go, Sil editing! What a novel concept...Anyway, this story has more than a hint of BDSM so if that bothers you it's your own fault for reading it. 
> 
> Otherwise, I don't know where this came from. I just like fluffy, happy ships and so I tend to write happy, fluffy endings for characters who don't get them in the series they belong to.

Peter was learning to be wary of Mr. Smiley— _George, call me George, Peter. We_ have _just got through the biggest in-house operation anyone can remember since that failure with Leamas—_ and going out for drinks with the man. Against his will he’d been moved up to the top floor, to replace Alleline and to put another pair of eyes on Bland and Esterhase. George confided, weeks ago, that he wasn’t ready to shake them out just yet. He needed to line up a few more men—or women, he’d said with a wink and a smile, knowing Peter would treat them as he would any man—to take their places. It would be madness to immediately do just what Lacon had worried Control would do—put his whole house down.

The afternoon meeting was wrapping up nicely—such meetings were bizarre on account of having Bland and Esterhase listen to him as an equal, but he’d always had George as a superior so it wasn’t odd to defer to him—when George had asked him to stay after to share a drink. The other two men had left quickly, knowing that Peter was George’s man. That Peter had helped George save the Circus. It was a precarious place to be and they all knew it but there was no helping the situation.

“I need your top work, Peter. I need it more than I’ve ever needed it and I’ve always needed it badly. You are distracted, grieving almost. You should go back, you know—”

“I can’t go back, George.” The soundproofed room helped him relax into using his superior’s first name as he scowled at his whiskey. He would not treat Richard like Mrs. Smiley treated George—he would rather live the rest of his life in misery than do that to Richard. It wasn’t an arrangement he had the fortitude for, either.

“And why not?” George said, settling comfortably back into the seat with his own tumbler hanging from his fingertips. “Delia’s reports are that you were devoted to one another—it shouldn’t take long to patch things.” Peter sighed, stealing one of the cigarettes out of George’s box on the table. The lighter in his palm burned—it was the one Richard had given him for their fifth anniversary. George knew enough about patching relationships that Peter trusted the man’s judgment. If he said the relationship was patchable, it was patchable and that was the end of it.

But he just didn’t trust his job—even if he trusted Delia to never let Richard’s files slip. If he was George’s man, then Delia was George’s _woman_. The files she looked after, well, only she and George and God even knew of them. Hopefully, at least, and it was that sliver of doubt that kept Peter honest with himself. No one was incorruptible or undying.

“What about the next time that someone will try to keep me quiet and scared, or send me a message with a garroting wire? The next time, when I have to kick him out again? What he and I had, it was stable—if it wasn’t for the long-term, I wouldn’t have informed you at all. No one reports flings, _no one_. I’m not going to look him in the eye again and tell him to leave, George.”

“I’m not suggesting that, Peter.” Sitting there in that seat which Peter had glimpsed Control in so many times, had seen Alleline in briefly, George looked like he was being entirely reasonable—it was why he was so effective in the field. Everything George said was _reasonable_. It was easy to go along with because it was hard to go against. Peter dragged the rest of his cigarette down and reached for another as he stood up to pace around the table.

“He can’t know about my job here, so I can’t ever tell him why he can’t stay. It’s safer when it looks as though I’ve grown tired of him, that hurting him won’t be useful because I don’t _care_ for him.” As much as it had hurt Peter to tell Richard to go, he knew that it would cripple him to come home to the other man’s murdered body.

“I can see that you do—everyone can see that you’re alone at home when there used to be another. Even if they didn’t know _who_ , Peter, everyone could see that there was _another_. And I’m not suggesting that you go back to him and keep him in the dark. Not at all.”

Peter froze, staring at the wall with his back to George, smoke from his cigarette silently stirring up through the air. People outside of the Circus weren’t supposed to know what went on inside of it. Exceptions were rare, and often only in situations like George’s—George had met his wife here in the Circus. She worked downstairs in Records when he’d met her.

“George…”

“Peter, I need your best work,” George said again, his voice soft on every word. “You’re trying, God knows you’re trying. _I_ know you’re trying. But the kind of zeal and energy for which I’ve long appreciated you is gone. Like a candle flame, snatched out by a strong breath.”

The room was tiny, built to be silent. An impenetrable bubble of security. It felt like it was closing in around him.

“You want him to come work here, to come hear from others what I’ve been doing for _years?_ ” Peter cried, rounding to put his hands squarely on the long table, looking across five feet of silent air at George— _Control_. He’d never be able to truly think of George as Control, though, not really. His abandoned whiskey rocked in the glass from the force he’d hit the table with. Peter sucked in a deep breath and hung his head to confess it all.

“George, he thinks I’m a politician’s secretary—he thinks I’m his harmless boyfriend who likes it when he fucks me so hard I can’t walk properly if I can stand at all _because my life isn’t all that exciting_. You can’t tell me to bring Richard in here, to have everyone tell him that _Oh yes, that’s Peter Guillam that is—head of the Scalp-hunters, him._ And because he’s _Richard_ he’ll ask, earnest and confused, _What is a Scalp-hunter, Alwyn?_ You can’t make me do that, George, you can’t do that. Because he won’t understand, he won’t.”

Even as he said it, Peter knew it was a moot point. The heavy air, filled with cigarette smoke from everyone at the meeting and his own just now, choked him as the red light above the door flashed twice—you can’t knock very well on a soundproofed door, after all. George didn’t move a muscle, not even his eyes twitched towards the door. He just stared at Peter, sitting in that chair that belonged to the old Control, smoking one of his quietly excellent cigarettes. The files from the meeting were arranged neatly in a pile to the left of his ashtray, and his whiskey tumbler had made it to the table at some point.

George did things without telling anyone because it served his and the Circus’ purposes—keeping intelligence just where it ought to be, secret and safe inside his head. Peter knew that, Peter had _always_ known that because George had trained him. The best kept secrets were between oneself and God—because even the dead could give up some information, usually dredging up questions of _why they were dead_.

Peter had complete, horrific faith that the door he was about to open would have Delia on the other side, with a _very_ confused Richard standing at her side. George wouldn’t have had that big speech about patching things up if he’d had Richard _properly_ tidied up, of that Peter was mostly sure.

“Peter, open the door. We have some things to discuss still. Pour another whiskey, too.”

 

* * *

 

Richard sat in Bland’s seat, which helped Peter not mistake him for Esterhase out of the corner of his eye. Not that he could have, but they were each balding in the same way. Peter had gone to stand in the corner, smoking and trying to keep it together—George was the only man to ever have seen him weep, and that was ten years ago now. Richard refused to look at him properly, and that ripped the slowly healing wound in him wide open.

“Mr. Litton— _Richard_ , may I call you Richard?” Peter saw the barest hint of a nod out of the corner of his eye. George’s voice was soft, the gravel from a lifetime of smoking worn to smooth pebbles because nothing could be sharp or edgewise with George. Peter felt like a boy, with his father mediating his life for him because he was too inexperienced. He knew the feeling was misplaced. This was George’s idea and George’s briefing, but he still felt like a child. Richard was eight years older than him, and George had a good twenty on him if he had anything.

“As you’ve no doubt gathered, Peter has not exactly been entirely honest with you.  I’d like to you try to forgive him, after I’ve told you a few things about the last year. Do you smoke? Help yourself, please,” he offered his cigarettes across the table, leaning so slowly that his chair hardly creaked. Peter heard Richard suck in a shuddering breath, the shift of cloth as he leaned forward to gingerly take a cigarette from the box George offered him. The scratching flick of a lighter, the smell of fresh smoke, and then a shaky exhale.

“You will, of course, have to sign a few documents before I begin. Just confidentiality agreements, all of us have to sign them—and then once we’ve had our chat, I’ll leave you for a few minutes with Peter while I make a few calls.”

“I’ll just go then—be back—“ Peter couldn’t look at either man, it was too painful. He felt Richard’s eyes burning into his back, too, and he could hear the mental reassessments going on behind those dark eyes. In another life, Richard would do what George did—wiggle into people’s heads without them even knowing most times, able to threaten them brutally effectively without lifting a finger. The door handle was icy in his palm when George’s cool, reasonable voice stopped him in his tracks.

“No, Peter, I should like you to stay. We would both like you to stay.” One of them cleared his throat, and then Richard spoke as well.

“Yes, I think I would like us both to hear what…”

“Mr. Smiley,” George said, and Peter knew it was with a faint smile and an inclined head.

“We ought to both hear what Mr. Smiley is on about.” Peter let his hand fall from the door handle. He was quite sure he had never been so humiliated—this life, this _understanding_ he had with Richard was none of anyone’s business. It was private, though he knew that he’d been stupid to think he could keep it that way. He was a spy after all. Turning around, he paced a straight line towards his tumbler of whiskey and threw it back. The stiff drink punched him in the face, but that was what he’d wanted anyway. With a sigh, he let himself back into his seat at George’s left hand, right across from Richard.

“Pour us a bit more, will you Peter?” That was George’s invitation to begin this reconciliation, and Peter took it. He sat still, his hands folded _just so_ , and his eyes rested on the table. He waited—there wasn’t really a point in getting Richard to fully sign any of the long-term agreements if Richard didn’t want him back even a little bit. George sat calmly as well, and Peter knew that his mentor’s eyes were eagerly taking this all in. New things fascinated the old man.

“If you would be so kind, Peter.” Peter was proud of himself that he didn’t instantly deflate with relief at Richard’s voice—it had been a close thing, waiting as the silence stretched out before his former lover spoke and saved him. It was one of the things he wasn’t allowed—showing unwarranted relief. There were others—if Peter sat _just so_ , then the only one who could request things of him was _Richard_. A year ago, on that achingly wonderful night of their fifth anniversary, Richard had told him that he would be there to order Peter around just as long as Peter wanted to be ordered.

His hand didn’t shake as he tipped the bottle over Richard’s tumbler, and that made Peter’s rabbiting heart calm itself even more. He wasn’t quite a mess yet, despite this aspect of his personal life becoming a sort of public knowledge with George—but then again George always knew everything. Peter would have giggled if not for the severity of the situation.

“And pour yourself the same.” Richard’s black eyes were on him the entire time until the butt of the bottle hit the table once more. Peter only very briefly glanced up into them and caught the barest hint of a wink when he did.

“You’ve seen enough that even if you don’t agree to sign the papers, you’ll understand the next time Peter has to do something…that you’re not used to. However, I would like to bring you up to date with just a few things. But if you would first sign.” Peter felt both bile and glee rise in his throat as Richard took the pen offered to him. It wasn’t George’s pen. The ink was vividly indigo—Peter and other department heads typically used indigo, whereas George had taken up the old Control’s habit of always using green ink.

Richard’s signature was even, and given without hesitation—he was a teacher and he was normal, so he was well practiced with his own name. Peter couldn’t quite claim the same easily familiarity with putting the letters in _Peter Guillam_ down on the page, and though he was right handed he lived his life using his left. _Better they break the weak arm thinking it to be the strong one, Peter_ , George had said to him many years ago.

“Now,” George’s voice carried his smile even if his face didn’t, “I won’t make you read all of what you’ve just agreed to, but I do expect that you will. For now, all you need to know is that none of this exists and no one does what we do here.” And with that George started off on the efforts and operations of the last few months, as well as Peter’s involvement in them. Richard listened attentively while Peter tried to remain as still as possible—he liked not being noticed—despite badly needing a cigarette after a while. The two other men sipped at their whiskey while his own sat untouched—he hadn’t been told or asked, and he dearly wanted to show Richard that he was still _Peter_.

When George concluded he finished his drink, and then said his goodbyes. The blinds on the door hardly shivered with how softly he shut it, though Peter could only barely see it out of the corner of his eye with a glance. His hands had stopped twitching with the need to move some time ago, settling instead into the steady relaxation that took over him when Richard was there. The teacher across the table from him let the silence linger over their shoulders, clearly savoring the same atmosphere. The only sound was the clock ticking on the sideboard where George always set it at the end of each meeting. His pulse ought to have been hammering away and deafening him with nerves, but it wasn’t. Peter didn’t care to meditate too strongly on why that was.

Richard patted his pockets for his lighter and lit up a cigarette. Peter only saw this in his peripheral vision, though, his eyes trained to the tabletop. The chair creaked under the other man as he changed posture and position, away from the passive and neutral pose and into a more commanding and direct one.

“So, you’ve kept this from me for longer than I’ve even known you.”

“Yes.”

“And your job—the fake one—did you make that up for my benefit or did it exist before me?”

“Before.” The word was barely out of Peter’s mouth when Richard slammed a palm flat on the table—he nearly jumped out of his skin, but managed to keep his composure for the most part.

“Dammit, Peter, I’m not going to strike you if you elaborate. I’m only asking because I’m curious—curious of how much of what I know about you was invented and how much is fact. Look at me when we’re speaking to one another, as well—I want to see your eyes.” With that, the other man slumped a little back into his seat with a sigh, one arm crossed over his chest while the free hand kept the cigarette close to his mouth. His eyes, such a dark brown they were nearly black, were squinted just a little as he focused all of his attention on Peter.

“You told me you wanted it over—which hurt me immensely, but it ended because that was what you wanted. What you said you _needed_ from me. I’m all about giving you what you want, Peter, and you broke no rules. Not then, and not now.”

And with that Peter broke into tears, tears he’d been fighting on and off for more than an hour really. It was relieving and mortifying as he put his face into his hands and sobbed—he didn’t care what the repercussions were for this, he truly didn’t. Because there would _be_ repercussions was the thing, the amazing, wonderful thing that had just opened up the floodgates. Richard’s chair scraped backwards, the floorboards creaked in time with his steps, and then his hands were on Peter, petting the back of his neck and rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder blades.

He’d never wept in front of Richard, not even once, and really neither of them knew what to do with it.

“I had to give you up. I had to look you in the eyes and tell you to go. They’d have killed you otherwise. Might have at least. I cou—I couldn’t take that chance. At least if I told you to go you would have a chance.”

Richard took a step back at that and took Peter’s wrists to bring him up to stand. Then he smoothed his hands down to twine their fingers together. Peter bent his head to rest against the teacher’s neck and shoulder, soaking up the other man’s warmth and the rumble of his voice as he spoke.

“But you weren’t going to come back on your own—to spare us both going through it again?”

“I told myself I wouldn’t hurt you that badly again— _ah!_ ” Richard had snatched one of his hands away and viciously pinched Peter’s hip almost before his words were cold in the air. He only barely managed to not flinch away from the sudden pain.

“Who tells you what to do concerning us, Peter? Who makes unilateral decisions without consulting the other?” The sting at his side warmed into something between pleasure and numbness as Richard’s fingers continued to pinch him—he didn’t dare lift his face from the crook of the other man’s neck. He knew the answer—he was only allowed to break up with Richard, after that he was supposed to give in and trust the man to make the right decisions. They both liked it that way.

“You,” the sting of the pinch wound through the pleasure and started to hurt again, “ _you_.” With that Richard let go and rubbed away the ache and then slid his arm around Peter’s waist to bring him in tightly. The teacher pecked kisses on his shoulder, up his neck before nudging Peter to face him for a nice good one on the lips. Peter for the first time felt that it was alright to really, _really_ lose himself in a kiss—because there was nothing, at the moment, that he _had_ to keep from Richard at all costs. He could be real to the one he loved, and it was intoxicating and would no doubt get him into trouble soon enough at home but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Now, you’re going to lock that door,” Richard was a bit breathless as he broke away from the kiss, staring right into Peter’s eyes, “and then you’re going to read that contract your man George bullied me into signing and explain it in English. After that, you’re going to be on your knees while I read it myself.”

Things would be alright. Not everything would be the same, and most definitely not return to normal, but things would be alright.

 


End file.
